Shades of return
by Lozilan
Summary: A collection of opening chapters, or drabbles about some ways Sherlock could have returned. Please take a look, would appreciate any feedback.
1. Chapter 1

Shades of return,

..a few opening chapters or drabbles on some of the ways Sherlock could have "returned, some more fanciful than others. If you want me to continue with any let me know, otherwise feel free to use as prompts for stories or ideas (please contact me first).

Enjoy!.

1. Rat

"Tell me when it's starting John; I'm just making a cup of tea."

"Right, the news is still on Mary, another five minutes. Wha..what the heck was that?" He squinted at the TV screen which was showing a quirky item at the end of the nine o'clock news.

"And finally," the newscaster had just announced, "we are going to go live to Jake Bunt, our man in the Far East, where a surprising development has taken place in the local animal population , Jake?"

A reporter was standing in some hot place, microphone in hand, where he was reporting that the local vermin there were running riot and proving difficult to exterminate..."Here in the island of Sumatra, the rats are taking over. Not just in numbers - they seem to also be increasing in size."

As if to prove his point a rather massive specimen ran over a wall and the reporter jumped out of the way.

"Mary, come and take a look at these bloody huge rats!"

"What?" His partner called from the kitchen, "You know I can't stand rats John, urghh, tell me when Downtown starts. I am making your tea."

The reporter came back into shot trying to look professional again.

"A team from Cambridge is here to investigate what is causing these rats to grow so large, meanwhile the local population is being told to be patient and an evacuation plan is being drawn up."

The screen shifted to a team of what appeared to be scientists working. John suddenly jumped up, startled, "Is that...it can't be! That's Dr Stapleton from Baskerville! Cambridge my foot- something's going on!"

Dr Stapleton kept avoiding the camera and as the footage shifted, John caught a glimpse of someone in the background bent over a microscope. It was a fleeting flash but he felt his heart burst. Quickly he picked up the remote and rewound back to pause on the figure. Trying to keep calm he went up to the television to try and make out who it was. The picture was grainy and indistinguishable and he was unsure of his first instincts. It was impossible, he must be mistaken. He must be.

"Has it started yet?" Mary came into the living room with two cups on a tray and some nibbles. She stopped in her tracks.

"John, whatever's the matter? You look like you've just seen a ghost! "

John recovered and took the tea from her, moving towards the door. "I'm, I'm going into the other room to call someone, don't delete that recording."

"Oh, you're recording Downtown then? Thought you didn't like it. It _has_ won awards, you know. I thought we could watch it together -John, can't you phone whoever later?"

"I've recorded the news, not your silly Downtown." He snapped.

"No need to shout! Look, what on earths the matter John? "

"It's nothing, probably. Sorry Mary, you watch your programme. "

He went into the bedroom and took out his phone; shakily dialing the number he had memorized but hadn't phoned for quite some time. He heard the phone ringing as his heart pounded and a familiar voice call his name in answer. John took a deep breath.

"Tell me he's alive," he pleaded, a mixture of hope and anger running through him.

The voice on the other end of the line sighed patiently. "I was waiting for your call, John." There was a long pause. John held his breath.

"You can leave tonight if you like. I have a private plane waiting for my signal. Do say you'll come, we have need of a former military man with surgical skills and you have precisely the skill mix we are looking for on her majesty's service in the Far East".

John swallowed. "Is it really..."

"Say no more John, there are mice in the wainscotting, listening and tapping about. Vermin are everywhere aren't they? But yes, our special agent, code name Altman is indeed miraculously alive after a terrible accident and he has been asking for your services day and night. I _do_ hope you won't disappoint. The plane can leave in one hour. It was unfortunate that footage got to the news but it has now been lost. I was rather expecting this call as soon as I saw the broadcast. We must move quickly now."

John let out a shaky sigh. He went to shut the bedroom door.

"What do I tell Mary?"

"Tell her an old friend is of need of your medical expertise. You will be a few days possibly longer, but we will take care of any expenses and loss of earnings. She will be fine John, no need to worry."

As he ended the call, John felt as if his life was beginning again. He knew what he must do.


	2. Chapter 2

Wedding

The pub was crowded. John sat at the bar with Greg Lestrade, nursing his whiskey. He had got past the elation stage now and was at the chatty uninhibited stage of inebriation.

Greg realised this was a chance to get some secrets out of him at last.

"You know, you're about to get married, -and Mary Morstan is a girl in a million, but if Sherlock had been here would you still have got married do you think, or were you just happy to be with him?"

"He would have probably stopped me," admitted John. "Life moves on, I've moved on too. I miss him, always will but ..."

"We always wondered, you know, what you saw in him, I mean… Oh honestly John, he was a right…John, sorry mate, you're getting upset. Best not talk about it on the night before your wedding; shall we go onto the club now? The lads are joining us there, this was just supposed to be a quick drink before we get there. At ten, we'd laid on some entertainment, if you know what I mean; it's twenty to 11 now."

"Greg, I'm sorry, I really am not in the mood for a stripper. You're supposed to be my best man and I want you just to take me back home now. You go on- to the club after- and tell them.. Something... And enjoy yourself mate. I know it's all paid for but I just want a quiet rest before the wedding, will you do that mate?"

"Yes, of course John, where is Mary staying, with her family?"

"No, she is in our flat; it's me that's staying away. We changed it. She doesn't want to leave the flat and her mum lives in Box Hill. It's too far. So, she is at the flat and I am at, I am at Baker St. One last night, one last night of my life there."

"Right, ok then. Even I want to see the place again, I'll get you there and -well you want me to stay over?"

"No, I want to be there on my own, one last night, been kind of looking forward to it. Besides, I'm a bit drunk already. No point getting a big hangover tomorrow."

"Ok, I'll get a taxi. I'll be back for you at ten in the morning with your suit. I've picked it up and it's at my house with the rings and flowers for the bride."

John got into the flat at Baker St. after greeting Mrs. Hudson. She seemed excited, probably about the wedding. He made his excuses and promised to compliment her on her hat tomorrow as he went up into the old place.

It seemed so quiet. He had a drink of scotch, and went up to his room. The bed had been stripped and he couldn't be bothered to make it. He went back down into the main room again then realised he .hadn't brought anything to sleep in. Doesn't matter, he thought, no one here now. He might as well sleep in Sherlock's room.

He opened the door. The light bulb seemed to have gone in the room but John could just about see the bed was made. Mrs. Hudson probably, she must have forgotten to tell me, it makes sense, this is, always was the better room.

He undressed and got into bed. It was pitch dark and he had to feel for the pillow. He had shut the door and couldn't see a thing now. The pillow smelled of Sherlock. The scent came back to him like an evocative dream. He shut his eyes and fell into a light sleep. He thought he heard a rustling sound beside him. He buried his face into the pillow

"Sherlock," he whispered into the softness of the pillow, "don't be dead".

"I'm not," came the reply. John imagined he must be dreaming.

Good, he thought, this is my dream indeed; he moved over to the sound of the voice and felt the detective beside him.

"Missed you," he murmured.

"Evidently," Sherlock said in a soft voice.

John put his arm around him and felt the form beside him respond. He gently fell deeper asleep.

The morning light fell though the thin curtains, warm and bright as the clear sunshine promised a lovely day. John woke up entangled in another person, that other person was not Mary. For a few seconds he didn't know where he was then with a jolt he realised, he was in Sherlock's bed. And folded round him, was Sherlock. The detective gripped him like a vice as he tried to scrabble away in total shock.

Sherlock moved his lips to his ear. "I'm not dead, I never was. It was a trick John. But no-one must know yet I am alive. Do you hear? No- one".

John was trembling in fright. What the hell was going on? "If you were alive you would have told me, wouldn't you? Oh god, it really is, it's really.."

A knocking sounded at the flat door which made them both jump.

"John, it's me Greg, hope you are decent, I'm coming in with the suit."


	3. Chapter 3

Bow

The audience clapped enthusiastically at the stunning performance. Miss Shirley Valentine, diva, whose style was an eclectic cross between Lady Gaga and Michael Buble, had just performed a life changing dramatic rendition of 'Cry Me A. River' and to coin a phrase- there wasn't a dry eye in the house. John was entranced. The Royal Variety Performance was the highlight of the show-business year and Mycroft had got them both tickets. When he had asked a suspicious John to accompany him, there had been a gleam in his eye. It reminded John of how Sherlock used to look at him, when he had just said 'could be dangerous'. Well this wasn't in any sense dangerous, but it was a chance to ask Mycroft some deep questions and try to resolve their feud -and this year the Queen was actually attending . Miss Valentine was a fill in after Diana Ross was suddenly unable to make it but her apparel was no less shimmering, her raven locks brushing nearly to her waist and a radiant glow in her eyes. There was a mystery about her; she reminded John of Dana International, the singer from Israel who had won the Eurovision song contest many years ago.

_How come I've never heard of her before_, wondered John, _she is fabulous_. Her voice was deep and mellifluous and her song heartbreakingly sad. He couldn't tell if she were really a low voiced woman, a transsexual, or the best drag act ever. Either way it was all fine.

`_Cry me a river, I cried a river over you`. _

Mycroft of course had a box at the Palladium. John had an excellent view of the stage but Mycroft was intent on watching the Queen and her entourage and seemed to pay little attention to the parade of top acts on show tonight.

Compares and National Treasures, Fry and Laurie, reunited -introduced the acts and even did a skit at the piano. John started to notice the extra security staff and well dressed men in tuxes hanging around and they looked straight out of the secret service.

"Something's going on, Mycroft," he said warily, "why am I really here, its not just to cheer me up is it?"

Mycroft gave him a sideways glance and then sighed. "John, there has been a terror alert in London and we have reason to believe there may be a threat to Her Majesty, possibly even tonight. I trust it you are armed? We made sure you were not subject to the searches everyone else had to go through, if not I have..."

"Yes, I have it. You know I have it. I will keep on my guard. You have plenty of security staff, why me?"

Mycroft did not answer. After a while John turned back to look at the stage.

Shirley Valentine had come back on to thunderous applause, it was nearly end of the show, and was performing an Enrique Iglesias number.

_` Baby I'm addicted, I'm out of my head and you're the only reason I'm trying_`

John thought of Sherlock again, every song seemed to mean something and this one seemed to have a message in it too. He got lost in the words

All to soon she had finished and as she took her low bow to the audience and raised up her eyes, she seemed to look directly at him . The audience was on its feet giving a standing ovation but out of the corner of his eyes John saw one of the tux clad secret service chaps dive in front of the Queen and Valentine suddenly produced a weapon from her bust. She aimed and fired at the only man who was not looking at her, John could clearly see the shot as the man fell. The audience suddenly began to panic as the secret service guys moved in. She backed off the stage warily as the man was apprehended and John reached for his gun. He decided to find out who she was.

Mycroft had his walkie-talkie out and was urgently speaking to one of the agents. "You were right," he said. "We have him; he is wounded but still alive. Terror alert level one is in place. We have safely evacuated Her Majesty and are evacuating the building now."

Mycroft looked up. "John, can you secure the premises? Look for anyone suspicious."

"That Valentine person one of yours?" Asked John as he went toward the exit, looking around him.

Mycroft suddenly looked guilty.

" Ahh.. Yes John, Valentine is one of our operatives we have placed just for this, I don't wish to shock you but..."

"Yes, I know it's a man, Mycroft, I have lived." He laughed and moved off quickly and before Mycroft could explain.

Behind the stage the last of the performers were being herded out and as he moved downstage he saw Shirley Valentine, as she called herself, staring right at him, gun in hand.

_Right then,_ thought John, a strange feeling beginning to crawl over him as he went towards her. "What the hell is going on and who are these terrorists threatening our Queen?"

Shirley suddenly smiled and took her wig off. John gasped; he felt his knees buckle under him and the gun he was carrying clatter to the floor.

It was Sherlock.


	4. Chapter 4

Bite me!

The vampire movie was great - well after a few pills and half a bottle of scotch it was anyway, - and the vamp in the film looked a little bit like Sherlock. Well, not _too much,_ but a little bit, especially if you closed your eyes and imagined it… like he was doing now.

John had been falling apart slowly for the last year or so. He'd been prescribed medication to cope and was working only sporadically. The last month, with all the sightings and false hopes, had been particularly bad. He had retreated somewhat into his own world. _'Oh Sherlock, that's what you should have done_.' He mused as he turned off the telly with the remote, '_You could have turned into a vampire and after you fell, you could have got off that morgue slab and roamed the city, feeding on the blood of the homeless - then you would have left London, ashamed of what you have become- and finally retuned to me when the need became too great.' _

Making a story up in his head about it all he took another drink and closed his eyes. '_This is what my life_ _has become' _he thought, as he fantasised on Vampire Sherlock. '_I am a sad old wreck'. _ He finally passed out and came to, in the early hours of the morning. There's was a shadow by his chair. He rubbed his face then took another swig from the bottle beside him.

"John?" The voice whispered in the dark, "John, I am back. I have finally retuned to you. What can I do? Tell me what can I do?"

John looked at the pale wasted figure before him. Sherlock had changed. '_Into what?' _He asked himself. The answer came immediately to mind. He had turned into a vampire. '_I am going mad_,' he thought_,' vampires don't exist do they? Or _do_ they?'_

"So, you _did _become a vampire then Sherlock? That's how you survived. At what cost?"

Sherlock tilted his face of deathly pallor in deep concern for his friend.

"I am not in a good place Sherlock, and I can see- neither are you. Come here and let me see you." John croaked.

The dawn light was creeping over and Sherlock withdrew into the shadows.

"I can't be seen, John. No-one must know about me. I cannot stay, there is danger all about. For you, for both of us. But I have seen you and my heart breaks as I watch from the shadows. What can I do, John? How can I help you? You look close to death yourself. You_ must_ live, for me."

"I will now Sherlock, but I want you to do something for me. I want to come with you now."

"You can't John, you have to say here and live."

"Live? Sherlock, what for? I want to be like you, living dead."

"Ahhh," said Sherlock sadly, "I would not wish this on anyone. You cannot join me, not yet, not out there." Sherlock retreated again and looked about warily, his dark eyes narrowed.

John grew desperate. His heart beat painfully in his chest. "Then bite me, bite me Sherlock!"

"What?"

"Bite me."

John extended his neck, pulled his collar away from his shoulder and looked up at Sherlock expectantly. Sherlock laughed softly.

"You want me to bite you? Ok, I will bite you if that's what you want. I will do anything to get my John back."

John felt calm as he lay back on the settee, his neck exposed. His eyes fluttered as Sherlock descended onto his throat. He knew no more.

…

The morning arrived in full force with the sun beaming into the dust particles of the flat, making them shimmer. John awoke and groaned. '_What a night. What a dream. What a mess.'_

He lifted his face towards the light. His eyes stung, making him look away. His hand went to his cricked neck and as he rubbed it, his hand drew blood. Shaking, he righted himself and looked for the bottle on the table. It had gone and in its place was a handwritten note on a leaf, torn from the last page of one of his novels from the bookshelf. A vampire novel. It was Sherlock's handwriting, John would know it anywhere. It said…

_I will return tonight. Tell no one I was here. I am stronger from being with you last night. I just want to see you smile again._

_SH._


	5. Chapter 5

Impress me

_"I was trying to impress you" _

The pub dissolved around John. All he could see was the image of Sherlock on the roof, tears rolling down his face. He was jolted back to the present by the bartender, pouring another shot to chase his pint of bitter. He turned and acknowledged the gift, raising his glass to the buyer beside him.

"To absent friends!"

"Absent friends." There was peace for a few seconds. "You know, John," the man next to him continued, clinking their glasses together with a grin, "I can clearly remember the look that you gave Sherlock, when he solved that case of the fake painting by recalling some fact -something to do with the date of a bloody supernova? He saved a boys life with seconds to spare. Your face, John, it was sheer unadulterated admiration."

John acknowledged this with a wry smile. "And he claimed he had no knowledge of even the solar system," he added, shaking his head in disbelief.

Greg was sitting beside him at the bar. It would have been Sherlock's birthday and they were both getting drunk and trying to figure stuff out the way drunks do.

"It was all a trick you know, a magic trick; that's what he said on the roof." John drained his bitter - bitterly.

Thirty years ago, on his tenth birthday, John remembered, he'd had that same feeling. He had been in a packed gallery with his father; a special treat for a treasured child as he'd had been in those days. His sister, 'didn't want to come to a silly magic show' she'd said. He remembered looking up in wonder as the rabbit was pulled out of an empty hat with a feeling of joy and surprise, as his father held his hand. His father, whom he loved, later drank himself to death.

The copper beside him mused into his swirling dregs of beer. "So, was he just a fake magician? Was it all engineered before-hand just to impress you? How? Why? What did he want?"

John shook his head. He signalled for another pint for them both.

"You know," Lestrade squinted into the distance. "The first time I noticed his effect on you, was when I clocked the look in your eyes when he reeled off that deduction about the woman in pink. You paused in shock and then, when you could actually talk again, you came out with –'that was amazing!' He scolded you for saying it out loud but he liked it, your admiration for him."

"Yes, I think later, he almost came to expect it. He would look at me after a spectacular deduction, with a ... _'Wait for it... Here it comes'_ kind of expression."

"How much did he like it?" Greg paused and looked up. There was no answer. John regarded his bitter intently. "Did he really have that chap Moriarty; commit those crimes to order, so he could continue to impress you- and me, presumably. How long had it been going on?"

"Greg, it wasn't like that. '_N_o_ one could be _that_ clever'_. That's what he said to me. But _he_ was. I _know_ he was for real. He was the real deal, - The Real McCoy."

"Are you sure? It wasn't all for you, was it? That was what he said wasn't it? _It was all to impress you. _He wanted to..."

"He could, he did. He impressed me. It was wonderful. He made me feel... I tell you, he was not a fake. He was _all_ real."

"Are you sure? He was clever, he could have. He could easily have pulled the wool over your eyes."

"No."

"What?"

"No, he wasn't a fake. I don't know _why_ he tried to tell me he was, to get me to think he was."

Lestrade suddenly banged his shot down on the counter. John jumped.

"Maybe it was some sort of clue!"

John nodded. "A clue, perhaps a hidden message? Sort of thing he might do actually, but what could it mean?"

"Fake… death- faked death, the ultimate magic trick! Only, he _did_ die didn't he? That couldn't have been fake, could it?"

"Well if it was, I'd like to see how it was done. Actually, no I don't. After all this time I don't care about the details too much, although I'm sure they'd astound me. No, I just _wish_ I knew what he did it for and why he…" John sighed. "Look Greg, if it _was _a trick, why did he never re-appear again? All the disappearing acts _I've_ seen usually reappear - often in a locked cabinet!" He laughed grimly. "Maybe he should have reappeared in the wardrobe in his room immediately afterwards, to stop this… stop this… being dead lark."

John drowned another shot. "So, whatever he was trying, if it _was _a trick, it didn't work, did it?" He was getting garrulous; any moment now he'd be crying his heart out. Lestrade would probably get embarrassed and leave. "The trick went wrong or he would have come back to me. He fell, he died."

John was silently willing himself not to cry. Wiping his eyes quickly, he stood up. "I'd better be getting back. Thanks for keeping me company on his birthday. Appreciate it."

"That's ok mate. Look, keep your spirits up. I'll see you next week. Watch yourself on the way home won't you?"

John waddled unsteadily out of the pub. Footsteps echoed behind him on the pavement. Someone was following him.

He stopped. "Greg, there's no need to follow me. I can get back perfectly well by myself; it's only a few blocks." He shot round but there was nobody there. Puzzled, he shrugged to himself and carried on.

"Did it impress you?" The shocking voice from the grave stopped him in his tracks. "I'm sorry I took so long getting back, I was delayed."

John turned slowly around and stumbled in horror. Strong arms caught him from falling and tilted him up. Sherlock was there. John was just too drunk to take it in. Sheer incredulity lit up his face and tears welled in his eyes. "Happy Birthday, Sherlock! Yes, I'm amazed, astounded, confab, confabulated and incredibly, incredibly impressed. I think I've just... Come Sherlock, help me home." John felt a fire-bolt of joy hit his heart. "Hey, I know I am going to punch you when I'm sober but I can't swing a good punch now. Anyway, I can't actually tell if you're real or a hallu.. a haluci..figment. Take me home and if you want to, you can impress me some more."

Sherlock took his arm and gently guided him towards his flat. "I am most dreadfully sorry, John, I am back now. Everything will shortly be as it was and you will soon feel better."

John looked blearily at his friend. "Promise you won't do any more disappearing acts though, will you?"


	6. Chapter 6

Scars That Won't Heal

_A bumper issue before the actual return_

Mycroft tapped his umbrella impatiently on the paving stones outside the new flat of John H Watson MD (as it said on the card next to the bell). He was wondering how he was going to defend himself and if he should have at least brought Lestrade along as back up. This could be very tricky. Granted entry when then the buzzer sounded, he gingerly picked his way upstairs to the third floor, the stairs having looked marginally better than using the lift.

John looked small. Well, he had never been a tall man but somehow he seemed to have shrunk even more over the past - how long had it been? Many months certainly, since they had last had occasion to meet. "John, how good to see you," Mycroft lied smoothly, putting on his most smarmy of smiles. John looked up at him briefly nonplussed, and offered tea. Mycroft accepted and perched on the small sofa which took up most of the room.

John handed him a mug. "I'm afraid Mary's at her mothers, so you won't get to meet her this time either, Mycroft, What can I do for you?"

"Mary?" Inquired Mycroft, "Ahh, your long term girlfriend. As I recall, you have been living with her for..." He took out his notebook and referred to it before putting it away again,"five months and three days." He snapped the notebook shut and put in back in this top pocket.

"She's the best thing to have happened to me in a long time." John nodded to himself. "Well, since Sher.."

"I need you to come with me at once," Mycroft interrupted. He put down his half empty mug on the battered coffee table and stood up. "I have something for you that you desperately need and which is in desperate need of your ministrations. This is extremely urgent. I had hoped to spare you this but I can do so no longer. Come Dr. Watson."

He strode towards the door and stood there expectantly.

John looked puzzled. "Don't do that. It's bringing back memories I want to forget. Why are you here anyway?" He looked up, uncertain. "Where's the fire?" He added, making no move from the tatty chair he had taken opposite Mycroft.

Mycroft took a deep breath. "My, my brother is alive." He stated. There was a shocked silence. "He survived the fall, whereas Moriarty, who was with him perished. Then he went after Moriarty's gang, managing to eliminate most if not all of the most influential leaders before he was taken and imprisoned by them. He managed to escape but he is in a terrible state. This is an official secret and no one must know he is still living. You must come to him in Baker St. at once."

John looked away, disbelieving. He turned back, shaking his head. "He can't be alive. I took his pulse, he was dead. No one could have survived- and if he had, he would have found some way of letting me know it."

"Ahh, he really couldn't. He needed to be declared dead, John. You could not, I regret, be informed."

"No." John stood up and walked towards Mycroft. "No, he would have told me, I could have helped him, been with him."

"I'm afraid I couldn't let that happen, John. Should you have suddenly disappeared yourself, it would have alerted the gang and put Sherlock in too much danger. He could not do what he had to do, unless no one knew he was alive."

John glared as his tone became a threatening snarl , "You _forbade_ us seeing each other? Knowing that he was alive, knowing he was facing Moriarty's gang on his own?"

"It was for the best, believe me, and he wasn't on his own. He had a crack team of SAS agents at his beck and call."

John suddenly rushed at him and Mycroft felt his back thud against the door. He curled his hand around his umbrella as John went for his throat.

"You are a piece of work Mycroft, how could you stand there at his funeral and…"

"John, we can discuss this later. I need you by his side right away. He is extremely ill, and...Damaged, he has been calling out for you."

For a minute John squeezed his throat as Mycroft slowly lifted the umbrella, and angled it towards him. Then John let go, defeated.

Mycroft rubbed his neck and took several breaths.

"Right, let's see the patient shall we?" John said briskly, the doctor again. Soldier mode disengaged.

...

John stood beside the nurse in Sherlock's room looking at the prostrate figure before him. He was hooked up to an iv of antibiotics and saline and in delirium. John was entranced.

"It's really him, it's really Sherlock! I wondered if this was some ruse you were pulling over me, but my god, it's actually him."

"The nurse will explain. His condition, as I understand it, is stable. We cannot risk hospital admission so we are attempting to care for him here. He is responding well to the antibiotics I believe, so I will let the nurse take over."

Mycroft left the room and John turned to the nurse. "What's going on?"

She handed over a care plan and began to explain. "Dr Watson, he's in a bad way. He has cellulitis and is in narcotic withdrawal. His body is covered in scars, some are red and angry and they are all over him. He has been treated for various infections, but he's not too well in his mind either. You should see what's on his back! What those monsters did to him, it's beyond belief! Still, as his brother said, he is responding well to the antibiotics and can go on oral medication in a day or so. I have the creams for his skin and we are putting his methadone and sip feeds through his nasogastric tube so we are, making sure he is not in pain and comfortable. He cries for you, but he is a strong young fella. Will you take a look at him now doctor?"

John nodded. "Thank you, nurse."

He gently pulled back the covers from Sherlock's body and took a visual. The nurse was right; there were strange looking scars all over him. John had taken his bag with him. First he checked his level of consciousness. "Sherlock, can you hear me?" He asked gently, "Its John." He pulled down an eyelid.

Sherlock responded by moving his head toward the sound. He tried to speak.

John continued to talk soothingly, checking the chart. The nurse had done her observations, his respiratory rate, his pulse and blood pressure. He got out his stethoscope and checked his abdominal area for bowel sounds. Those strange squiggly scars looked horribly like someone had tried to crudely carve a word all over him. He checked his chest for any fluid or crackles. Then he asked the nurse to help lift him up so he could listen to the chest from the back. As they did so the light fell on the pattern of scars on his back. John gasped. He hung the 'scope around his neck and reached out his hands to trace the first scar over his left clavicle. It was big enough to come down to his mid back. "Is that a figure 1?" He asked the nurse.

"No it's the letter I, Doctor, don't you go reading the next word out loud."

John traced the F and then the U. He felt his cheeks redden.

"And there's your name underneath the sexual swear word, Dr. Watson. Animals they were, carving that into his back, so viciously, so deep. They did it just for fun you know."

The scars on his back were much older than the others and relatively neatly done. The white scar tissue stood out from the slightly darker skin and was impossible to miss. John remembered a Dickens novel he'd read, where a child had to wear a notice that said 'he bites'. The message couldn't be any clearer.

"Thank you nurse, that will be all."

She helped lay her charge back uncovered on the bed and left.

Shaking, John grabbed a chair and sat down beside his patient. _What had they done to him? _He brought his hand over onto Sherlock's skin and traced the scars on his chest with his finger. They were all the same word, all his name. Jagged and badly cut, unlike the terrifying huge letters on his back but still just as damming. "John, John…" he repeated as he slowly traced the letters, discovering each new series of scars beneath dressings and layers. He started to feel dizzy, trance-like, wondering what the raised scar tissue would feel like beneath his tongue and failed to respond when the alarm went off.

Sherlock was flat-lining, his heart had stopped.

….

Ok, that's it for now; enjoy the real return, laters!

Special Thank you for reviewing Patemalah21!

_(Don't worry, the nurse is outside, she will rush in ….)_


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